


with my little eye

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [347]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gold Rush AU, Mithrim, POV Second Person, Peripheral concerns, The Great Lake Rescue of 1852
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29306331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Five people who saw something. Or: four people, and one wise dog.
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [347]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Kudos: 13





	with my little eye

The inward _whoosh_ , sun through beech-leaf ears, hay snatched up, tail flicking: Alexander. You wait with him, watching him, and forget the tender burn-blister on your palm. You forget the cruel black cauldron, iron-sided, that you brushed without thinking.

You forget about why you weren’t thinking.

Hay around you, scattered, pricking, itching. You wriggle; Belle smooths the horse blanket beneath you both. Sometimes she’s still Belle inside your head.

You cried together, just now. Red darkness in the folds of her trousers, where you hid with your eyes shut. The sun comes up on both of you a second time, after that. Your breath skims wetly, treacherously, out of your throat, but you’re not crying anymore.

 _Better?_ Belle asks, becoming Estrela again, as you return to being the Frog who wears moccasins, the Frog who eats at the table, the Frog who has _friends_.

 _What’s a friend?_ you asked Sticks, nights ago.

 _Good times and bad_ , Sticks said. _But you want ‘em round._

You want Russandol, of course, so that makes it simple. Estrela is harder. She is there, and sometimes you want her to be gone.

Sometimes you want to be inside your head. Safe from the water, that way.

Night betrayed you. You betrayed him. You were deep in one-eyed slumber, and he was wandering on crooked legs.

How great a man does a martyr have to be, for you to find so much to love left in his inglorious body?

Woodsmoke, sharp air, _how cold the water must have—_

You help; you are helpless. You speak, and make yourself understood even less than usual. Your mouth stops fighting its ruination at times like this.

 _It was Maglor_ , Beren says. _Maglor, who wanted..._

You wished that that were wholly true. You wish that you knew Russandol better, or not at all. Caught where you are, half-important, watching the smoke drift and dissipate on the breeze—you are painfully inadequate.

You take your children (not even your own children) and keep them far from all the rage and fear and shame of those who love him. You go to the stables, but Sticks is too old to mind you now, and she breaks away, running back. You expect Frog to follow her. You expect him to love Sticks more than he loves you. You expect yourself to grieve it all: all the ways you are not enough.

But Frog stays.

Amras broke the news, and Celegorm with it. He turned from man to half-spirit in an instant. You had almost reached _friendliness_ with your hunting companion. You had heard his quick, barking laugh. You had seen the flash of interest in his eyes when you told him pieces of your story, your knowledge.

Death of pine, birth of spring. The first buds. The fresh prints of waterfowl, of deer, along the streambeds.

_His brothers in the water._

You were sorry. He didn’t hear you. He followed Amras into the fort, and you remained with all the trappings of the hunt hanging heavy on you. Finrod found you, or perhaps needed you. Sometimes you remind yourself that Finrod may need you. Standing there with a borrowed coat thrown over his mud-stained clothing, he said, “It was Maglor. I don’t…”

You would not pity him; he would not want pity. You held his gaze; then you reached to grip his shoulder.

Finrod said, “Perhaps I’ll never know what took him. It’s just that Maedhros went after him. He may die for it. At least he’ll die as the Maedhros I knew.”

You said you hoped that Maedhros would not die at all.

Bone broth. Herbs crumbled. Fat rising, skimmed in lazy, shimmering rings on the surface. What is running through her, like horses to water, is what they would call prayer. What he would call prayer.

_Oh, Fingon._

He was changing a bandage when the cry went up. You were watching him become again what he has always been. You know what he chooses.

You ladle the broth, send in the bowls, seek the garden. Tabitha nods to you; woman’s weariness in the creases of her face. You understand.

“Wachiwi,” says Estrela, speaking your name almost truly. No one who does not know your native tongue can capture it exactly—at least, no on whom you have met. But Estrela does her best, at this and many things. She asks, “How fares he?”

“Fingon is keeping him warm.” You smile; she needs a smile. Beren is here, too, and him, you favor with a wryer grin. “That’s what is best. That’s how we saved Fingon.”

Beren nods. Encouraging.

“And he was colder,” Estrela murmurs. “Much colder. Yes?”

You nod. “Blocks of ice, the lot. Fingon is glad to still have—” You almost said _fingers_ , but that is too close to hands.

Master is between the lake and the horses. Master is between dead and alive.

You hang back. You can smell his anger, dark and rising. You came from the water, and then from warm-blooded room, and you do not know if he wants you. If he would touch you after you have not been his.

You hang back. You huff the air, you watch the quarreling jays. Morsels of feather and voice; little more. You leave your master, too many times now. You trot and sniff in search of the boys from the lake. On the way, you smell good things and bad. The rot of bodies. Meat, stewing in the pot.

It mingles; it fades.

Your teeth and haunches, your nose and spine. Hunting, holding, dragging, dallying. You have done all these in good faith.

 _Don’t leave me_ , say your boys. The boys in the water said that to each other. Your master has said it with his breathing, his hands.

Still, you go on. On and away. You have to let what rots, rot. You have to let the birds go, for they are not worth the killing.

You have to wait for Master to come to you.


End file.
